To withdraw _myself_ from
_myself_ (oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire,
my sincere motive in scribbling at all; and publishing is also the
continuance of the same object, by the action it affords to the mind,
which else recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter
received opinions, which have gathered strength by time, and will yet
wear longer than any living works to the contrary. But, for the soul of
me, I cannot and will not give the lie to my own thoughts and doubts,
come what may. If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I
envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to
a passport to Paradise,--in which, from the description, I see nothing
very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something "within that
passeth show." [4]
It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire
which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but I see no such
horror in a "dreamless sleep," and I have no conception of any existence
which duration would not render tiresome. How else "fell the angels,"
even according to your creed? They were immortal, heavenly, and happy,
as their _apostate Abdiel_ [5] is now by his treachery. Time must
decide; and eternity won't be the less agreeable or more horrible
because one did not expect it. In the mean time, I am grateful for some
good, and tolerably patient under certain evils--_grace a Dieu et mon
bon temperament_.
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